Stag! Stag! Stag!

Brothers, I will drink my fill with my brothers,
And if one of us is ill then my brothers will watch over me.

(Hot Chip, Brothers)

Manchester, Oh so much to answer for.

(The Smiths, Suffer Little Children)

___________________________________________________

Tradition dictates that a man in want of a wife must have a stag do. Now a stag do can go two ways: it can be just what the prospective groom wants, or just what he doesn’t want. Fortunately, my brother has forgiven me for being an irritating little bastard as a child and chose to organise the former.

He said, ‘Where do you want to go?’

I replied, ‘Manchester.’

He said, ‘What do you want to do?’

I said, ‘I don’t want to do anything physical.’

He said, ‘Crazy golf?’

I said, ‘Defo.’

He said, ‘Where do you want to end the night?’

I said, ‘Indie disco.’

He said, ‘Should I pack invisible gladioli?’

I said, ‘Yes. Bring a bunch. I’ll do the rest.’

Some boys play air guitar. I play air gladioli.

So we were off to Manchester, home to Factory, Fergie, parkas, rain and simian approaches to walking. I’d always wanted to go to there; it’s where The Smiths are from, my all-time favourite band. 80’s Morrissey remains my hero: melancholic, literate, hilarious – there will never be a better pop star. (A shame he hasn’t aged like a fine wine, today resembling a fine dickhead.) I knew the other boys would appreciate Manchester too: new fathers, they would jump at the opportunity to abscond for a short time, but I was aware as decent men they would want to get back too. Two hours on the train and we'd be there. 24 hours and we'd be home. This wasn’t going to be a stag weekend. It would be a stag day. All Killa No Filla to quote a Sum 41 album. We would be on it like an Austen bonnet, then back to residence for tea and aspirin.

The day started with me up bright and early; Liam and me meeting outside Aldi to board the bus. (Dunstable has a busway, which is the finest example of town planning since the pedestrianisation of Norwich City Centre; consequently we were at the station in ten minutes.) Getting the train, we head to Kings Cross, where we made the short walk to Euston. Greeting us at the station was my brother. Soon the other boys arrived, meaning we could make like Tolkien characters on an expected journey. We were only missing one. Scott. It had gone nine and the train was in quarter of an hour. I left a message. I left a missed call. Still no reply. ‘We’ll have to go without him.’ (Kieran said this a little quickly, if you ask me Scott.) And I said, ‘I guess we’ll have to.’ (Notice the word ‘guess’ there, Scott. It suggests a sad reluctance.) Then Scott rang and said he was on the motorway and was never intending getting the train. This is what happens when you try to organise a group of boys.

For the train my brother got some beers in. Usually I have a rule where I don’t drink before 12, unless I really want to, and then I just move my watch forward, making it perfectly acceptable; but this a stag so I broke with protocol and drank ante meridiem Budweisers – delicious. Jonnie and me spoke about work for ten minutes, realised what we were doing, corrected ourselves, then talked about music and comedy for two hours – this is the right ratio for life. It was 11.40. We had arrived.

Golf was booked for 12.30 so we needed to get moving. Kieran had checked us into the Ibis Budget Hotel, a 5 star spa retreat, priced at £40 a night. It surprised me, actually. The downstairs foyer was like an Apple Genius Bar: clinically white with free croissants. (I think they were free, otherwise Ant has to hope the long arm of the law doesn’t stretch south). We organised who was bunking with whom. Kieran said it was tradition for the best man and groom to share. I know the subtext of this was, ‘I miss the chats we used to have when we were little. You know when we had the bunk beds, and after mum had read us some Dahl, we would talk to the early hours of the morning about what football boots we would buy next; whether those Predator ones really could bend the ball like a banana, turning incompetent players like us into world stars. I miss that conversation before closed eyes. You were wise before your years; funny before you’d even watched classic comedies. Those were the best days of my life.’ So yeah, I know the real reason you wanted to share, brother.

We then got the tram to Deansgate and ran across the tracks to Junk Yard Golf. The golf was brilliant. More and more of these places are popping up in cities. The Girl and I like Swingers in London, which has a 1920’s, white-picket Gatsby feel; this one had a bit more grit and industry. We got a couple of cans of Red Stripe from the bar and made our way round the nine holes. There were some cracking holes: one involved hitting it through Del Boy’s Reliant Robin, another had a Mouse Trap feel with different coloured holes leading to colour shoots that would then take it towards the hole. It was great. A bit of friendly competition, a chat, a drink: what more can you want?

After, we had a break and went round the other course, which had more of a carnival theme with a hall of mirror, Ferris wheel and clown’s mouth. By this point, it was 2 o’clock and I’d already had five pints. Typically, I don't have five pints by this time. Sure, four pints, but never five. I find the fifth one makes teaching period 5 difficult. It means my transitions between activities are a little slower and I’m at risk of clattering into students, sending them sprawling to the ground; so I always refrain from the fifth one during lunch. Often, I’ll give it to a colleague who has a free period.

With the golf scores added up, the winners were declared. Jonnie, who was a former golfing star, did not place highly, proving one of two things: either there’s no skill in crazy golf, or he’s squandered his talent, the Gazza of the fairways, destined to wonder where it had all gone wrong. I came third on both occasions, suggesting unremarkable consistency, a quality I hope to take into my marriage.

Junk Yard Golf.

It was then off to City Road Inn for pie, mash and beer. I should go on record and say that the pie and mash in that place was brilliant. Normally, I’m happy to talk at length about things that do not really matter, and I apologise boys it was remiss of me to not deliver a monologue on the chef’s skill at balancing pastry and filling. I think the reason I didn’t soliloquise on the food was because I was too busy enjoying the chat. Chat here mainly centred on criminal records. I’m going to leave it at that – all I will say is that I was the one listening to the stories, as opposed to telling them. I’m no jailbird.

Up next was the micro-brewery in what appeared to be an industrial estate. By this point I’d lost all geography, I didn’t really know who I was or where I was going. I was actually beginning to regret the fact that I hadn’t asked my mum to sew in my name and give me a card with my home address, should I find myself lost. The brewery was the first time someone treated me like a groom, and by that I mean paying no respect for my physical well-being. Dec bought me a beer that was 11%. Typically, the beer I drink is around 4%. 2% was enough to decide whether Britain should leave the EU; 7% was enough for my head to leave its senses and exit all reason and logic.

I was then bundled into the back of a taxi and taken to the hotel. Fortunately, a hot shower seemed to revive me and made me remember my name and why I was in Manchester. It was time for fancy dress. Originally, I told my brother to forget costumes. Then, I thought, ‘Actually, we might be able to make it fun.’ All the boys, other than Ant are massive comedy fans, (the last TV Ant watched was the fall of the Berlin Wall) so I decided on ‘Comedy Characters’ as the theme. Being brown makes it difficult. There aren’t many brown characters. There’s Apu, but there’s controversy around a white actor voicing him currently, and I didn’t want to defend my costume choice whilst being completely leathered – I felt my argument could lack nuance. It was therefore decided I would be Ali G: Baron Cohen and me share a similar skin tone and comedic genius. I have to say my costume was pretty booyakasha. Other lads who did a great job were Dec as Partridge and JP as Duff Man, but the real winner was Andy as Father Ted. His wig fit him so well that it really did feel that we’d resurrected Dermot Morgan.

On the way to the restaurant I somehow saw it fit to lampoon the other boys’ costume. Apparently Jim had let himself down by not having a proton pack; Liam disappointed by forgetting a sheep skin; Kieran’s wig was ‘too Elton John’ and JP’s was ‘too good and not shit enough.’ I was like RuPaul, pouring catty scorn on all comers. I loved them for it though. There’s nothing better than seeing fancy dress done nearly right. Scott, for example, was Ron Burgundy but didn’t have the wig, as a result he looked like a hipster sailor that had put a red sock in with his whites. Manchester seemed to enjoy us anyway. I got "Ali G" shouted at me a lot. I raised my dollar rings in gangsta salute. The people smiled. I smiled. We all smiled. In a complex world, sometimes you just want to see a grown man looking ridiculous.

Nearly getting it right: Liam as Del Boy/Peaky Blinder and Kieran as Austin Powers/Elton John.

We were then in Turtle Bay. The only people in a fine eatery in fancy dress. For a fancy restaurant, you would expect other patrons to wear fancy dress too. As it was we were the only ones who made an effort. The Caribbean food was delicious. I mean, I was having a good day with my mates and that. And sure, they’ve been the ones who I’ve shared triumphs and disasters with. But what was most important about today was that I had had a Leon breakfast, a pie and mash lunch, and lovely Caribbean food. Normally, I eat out once a month. Today, I had eaten out three times in one day. And that’s the big memory I’ll take away.

I next found myself in a bar repeating the catchphrase, ‘I can’t drink anymore beer.’ I remember my tone sounding quite distressed at this point. I’d had about ten pints and I just couldn’t go on. Ant took sympathy on me and bought me a Jager Bomb. Which is a bit like giving a someone a ‘Ha! Ha!’ card at their mother’s funeral. In this life or next, Ant, I will find you and I will kill you. Fortunately, my brother noticed I was beginning to flag, gave me a pep talk, and got me out and into the nightclub.

42^nd Street is a club in Manchester that plays wall to wall indie anthems. When we arrived there was no one in there. I wondered if this club was so independent that it didn’t advertise and thought leaflets were for corporate whores. As it was, it was 9.30, too early to get going. Because get going it did. I waved my invisible gladioli to ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again,’ beat my chest to ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ and threw my limbs to ‘Babies.’ I got a bit over-zealous with my dancing at one point and sent my brother to the ground. I also remember asking my brother if he could sort it for me to stage dive across the dancefloor. I’ve said the same thing at a work’s Christmas Party before. I’m unsure why it appears to mean so much to me; but within my psyche there seems to be a primal need to do it. In all honesty, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it. I’d be worried about my wallet, phones and keys the whole time. Maybe, I could give these to a responsible adult before to ensure I didn’t lose them. Maybe all this talk about the administration of stage diving is why I shouldn’t do it and leave it instead to the reckless few that put fun before practical concerns.

Da Club.

Some of the boys went AWOL at this point. One who knew how to get home; one who didn’t. I was unaware of this and went looking for them. Yet with every turn I took I was set upon by bum fluff paps snapping me for their Insta. I felt like Kate Bush in an Ali G costume: desperate for privacy away from the world’s gaze. My brother grabbed me by the shell suit and took me and the other lads home. Luckily, the other two were there once we arrived.

In the morning we checked out and went for a breakfast in the themed Brexit pub called J.D Wetherspoons. I got up to make a toast but I didn’t have the strength or fluency to fashion a sentence. I sat back down. Andy clocked that I wanted to thank my brother and said, ‘Did you want to say anything?’ We raised our mugs and celebrated my brother for organising a great day. I didn’t have the words for a speech, so I’ll conclude this blog by writing what I wish I'd said:

Thank you for giving up your time, money and babies to be here. I’m lucky to know men whom I can talk to about comedy, about love. These, after all, are the two most important things in life. In particular, thank you to my brother who organised the whole thing. I’m very proud of you and the job you’re about to start. Even though you're flesh and bones and the one who's been there since the start; despite the fact the rest of you are johnny-come-lately’s, who only saw fit to befriend me once I could stand and talk; despite all of that, I consider each and every one you my brothers. A toast to 'brothers.'